The Death & Life of Simon Monroe
by pdsanonymous
Summary: If Simon's life had gone a little differently...Characters & some text is taken directly from In the Flesh, thank you Dominic Mitchell for creating this amazing world :) Most of this is from my head since we're still in the dark with most of Simon's past, but for now this it Simon's story as told by me w/ W.B. Yeats anchors x WARNING for some heavy drug references
1. The Suicide of Simon Monroe

**_I know that I shall meet my fate,_**

**_Somewhere among the clouds above_**

Ever since he could think, Simon had this piercing notion that life was completely meaningless. That he and everyone else were just treading water until their bodies gave out and they sank back into darkness. When he thought like that 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, why not get fucked up beyond belief?

Slam the drink, light the joint, pop the pill, snort the line, fuck the stranger, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Turn the nothing into something, the something into everything.

_**Those that I fight I do not hate,**_

_**Those that I guard I do not love;**_

It didn't take long for his habits to overcome him, by his 19th birthday his dad had kicked him out. He could still hear his father's harsh tirade rattling in his head "See what your son's become Mary? A filthy, drug-addled faggot! I won't have it." His mother crying in the other room, unable to face her son as her husband threw the boy's things to the curb. A normal son would have been hurt, able to feel hurt, but Simon didn't mind. It was a way out, because even through the drug clouded window he dreamed.

_**My country is Kiltartan Cross,**_

_**My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,**_

Dreamed of the things he saw in the American films he had grown up watching, everyone happy and smiling. Maybe it was America? Maybe America would somehow change things? Maybe America would change him? It was a promising notion, so he had to make it happen. Turning tricks seemed the easiest source of income, and it worked well for him; the tall, handsome boy with good skin and no morals. While the other rent boys looked ragged beyond their years, Simon still looked fresh faced at 21; even if his eyes did look dead inside. Within a few short weeks he had earned himself enough for a one way ticket to LA…no reason for a return flight.

**_No likely end could bring them loss_**

**_Or leave them happier than before._**

Within a week the stardust had worn off, leaving him as miserable as before. LA wasn't like the movies had promised. Beneath the cover of the Hollywood glamour and gold, the City of Angels was tainted and tarnished. Never was a place so filled to the brim with broken promises and muddled dreams. The most promising thing about it? It was the perfect place to score.

_**Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,**_

_**Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,**_

Lacking cash, he returned to his normal means of survival, selling his body and the last bits of his soul. It was through Tom that he found the mother lode: Xanax, Vicodin, Oxycontin and then some. Tom wasn't his real name Simon was sure, but that didn't really matter did it, it was just a name to call out in feigned pleasure. He had a pocket full of pills and an apartment close by and that was enough for Simon. It had been a particularly sticky hot California day and all Simon could hope for was to get away from the heat and high as a kite in the shortest time possible.

When they arrived in the cramped dwellings, Simon couldn't help but to look upon the mantle where a family picture was proudly displayed; 'Tom' with beautiful blonde woman to his left and two small children to his right. "This was our first apartment," Tom stammered, catching Simon glancing at the picture, "I keep it for things like this. We have an understanding." Why telling Simon this story was necessary he wasn't sure of, it's as if the man cared what Simon thought, when in actuality Simon could not care less. This was a business arrangement nothing more.

Simon held his hand out impatiently, "Something to take the edge of eh?" Tom placed two pills into his hand hesitantly, a down payment of sorts. Simon had no such hesitation as he crushed them hastily on the coffee table and inhaled them hard into his right nostril. Instantly he felt the familiar burn in the back of his throat, knowing that in another minute he would feel the warmth staring to flow through his body.

"Where's the bedroom?" Simon was ready, ready to get this over with, ready for the remainder of the pills he was promised. Tom smiled, looking pleased with himself and guided Simon to the door down the hall. Simon started at the man's belt buckle before they were even in the door. When he leaned in for a kiss Simon responded by dropping to his knees on instinct. This is what his mouth was for, not for a stranger's mouth to meet his adoringly. He had become good at this over the years, sucking cock. From his high school years with closeted boys on the football team before he had worked his way up to the drug dealers and married men that paid him for his service.

As he knelt there now, knees digging into the carpet, he relied little on these skills as the man of the hour was hard with just a flick of the tongue and a peck on the tip. His shaft was unremarkable, but then again, this wasn't a social visit. He had already told Simon what he wanted, Tom wanted to fuck Simon here in his family's first apartment and that was just fine by him as long as there were more pills to come. Reaching into his pocket, Simon found the condom and rolled it on with ease before dropping his own pants. He urged the man over to the bed where Simon bent over face first into the duvet, backing himself into the man hastily. The sooner this was started, the sooner it would be over and the sooner he would have the outstanding balance dissipating into his bloodstream. By the time the man had inserted himself in Simon, he was already partly numb. Numbed by the pills whose burn still tickled the back of his throat. It took little more than a few thrusts and the man came, sweating and cursing before falling back onto the bed where they had just fucked. Simon was left unimpressed, never becoming hard himself, as this man would never be his type; fat, sweaty, a man who had a wife and a family.

As the man caught his breath Simon pulled on his own pants while searching for Tom's. Finding them at the foot of the bed, he reached into the front pocket to find the drugs he was owed. There were only five or six there, a disappointment to Simon, but he took them all right then in one fell swoop, swallowing them dry. He walked out to the living room and slipped out the front door, pretending he didn't hear Tom calling after him.

It wasn't until he was halfway home that he felt the first of them kick in. By the time he reached stoop of his single room occupancy, he felt his whole body give way. The last thing he remembered was feeling numb all over before his eyes rolled back in his head. He was dying for sure.

**_A lonely impulse of delight_**

**_Drove to this tumult in the clouds_**

When he woke up several hours later, he was still there on the stoop. No one had even noticed in the wee hours of the morning. Simon had almost wished he hadn't woken up, but alas he had. And now all he could focus on was the next high, the higher high, the highest.

_**I balanced all, brought all to mind,**_

_**The years to come seemed waste of breath,**_

Heroin—'When I put a spike into my vein, and I'll tell ya things aren't quite the same.' And nothing ever was the same again, 'cause when the blood begins to flow, when it shoots up the dopper's neck, when I'm closing in on death, because when the blood begins to flow I really don't care anymore.'

It was at a club with 'friends' that he first saw someone chase the dragon, burning the tinfoil and lapping up the smoke fervently. It was in that moment his body felt alive, more so than it had ever been. Even before he started coming down, he knew he wanted more, to feel that initial rush again and again. It was beautiful, it was terrible, it brought him closer to life and it brought him even closer to death.

It could never be achieved through smoking again, so he started shooting up.

Today, the process alone made his whole body tingle. Carefully filling the spoon with the sweet venom, crushing it finely, adding the water drop by drop before letting the lighter gently lick the bottom of the spoon until it bubbles ever so slightly. Letting it cool had always been the hardest, the anticipation of it nearly fatal, he had burnt his veins on a regular basis. At first it was easy, finding the perfect vein, but in time it became a dutiful art form. Wrapping the tourniquet tighter and tighter until one little vessel comes through to be sacrificed. The prep work was always worth it though, because in an instant he was there. Or almost. Nothing had ever felt as good as that first hit but he decided to keep trying, he had nothing but time locked away in the gas station bathroom the other junkies coveted for its dim lighting and slacking management. So he cooked up some more, twice as much, found the perfect vein and pushed the needle through. And suddenly it was there, the rush. Better than it had ever been, and then nothing. Nothing at all.

**_A waste of breath the years behind_**

**_In balance with this life, this death._**


	2. The Resurrection of Simon Monroe

_**Come swish around, my pretty punk,  
And keep me dancing still**_

This time he hadn't been so lucky, to wake up in the same spot where he fell. This time he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. The lights were shining bright through his fluttering eyelids and he could hear a soft voice in the background.

As he opened his eyes cautiously, it became clear; the lights were fluorescent and the voice was coming from the woman at his side. If what he was seeing wasn't enough, the overwhelming smell of antiseptic was; he was in the hospital. Seeing him awaken, the nurse drew her attention from the monitor to the man it was attached to.

"Simon, can you hear me? You're in the Emergency Department of Ronald Regan Medical Center. Do you remember what happened today?"

_Of course I remember. It was perfect, why didn't you leave me there. How can I get back to that instead of being here?_ _Who decided I was worth saving?_

She keeps talking, not waiting for a response, like she knows exactly what he's thinking.

"The manager of the gas station found you in their bathroom. You're lucky he found you when he did. Paramedics gave you Narcan as soon as they saw the syringe on the floor."

_How thoughtful of him, how thoughtful of them all. Remind me to write them a thank you card._ Simon can't help to let out an audible laugh at the thought.

"Glad you think this is all very funny. Do you know the rates of hepatitis and HIV in intravenous drug users?"

The slight smile that had formed on Simon's face is quickly erased. "Shit."

"Yeah, shit."

She pauses for a moment, giving Simon just enough time to think back on all the questionable needles he's used in the last several months.

"You're a lucky one though, so far all your blood tests have come back negative. But you can't keep doing this you know? I see people die every day from that sh..." before she can finish the curtain is pulled back forcefully.

"Hi! I'm Dina, I'm your nurse liaison!" The bubbly blonde is the polar opposite to the nurse before her, with her stark eyes, and starker attitude, it's like she doesn't know she's talking to a junkie. "I'm here to discuss getting you into a treatment program that best suits your needs."

_Ha! A treatment program? The only treatment I need is more of that stuff I had before. I wonder where my stuff is? They better give it back, I worked hard for that shit._

"The paramedics found your in case of emergency contact in your wallet. Mary Monroe, is that your mother? I spoke with her this morning and she said she was going to fly in."

Simon instantly sat up in the bed, feeling the color drain from his face. "My mam?"

"Yup! All the way from Ireland, she must love you very much…" the blonde continues to speak but Simon doesn't hear a word. _My mam? Coming all the way from Ireland? But for what?_

_**That I may stay a sober man  
Although I drink my fill.**_

Spending the night in the hospital wasn't as bad as he was expecting. They give him medication, methadone, for his withdraws. Some say it's even better than the heroin, though he disagrees. Nothing can rest his mind. Knowing that his mother will spend an entire day to come see the son who she hasn't seen in years leaves him shaken. His naturally thin frame is more skeletal now that he had chosen drugs over food, his once delicate white Irish skin now marked with scars of prick after prick; it's as if he aged six years in the three since he's left Ireland and ten in the five years since he's seen his mother. Despite his nerves, he sleeps most of the day. Easier to sleep and forget than lay awake in trembling anxiety.

When his mother arrives the next afternoon, Simon can hear her voice and hers alone in the hall. He knows his dad mustn't have approved of this pilgrimage. He's believed Simon to be a lost cause at 19, imagine if he saw him like this at 24? _I would have proved him right, eh? _Then why does he wish his father had shown up too?

She talks outside the room with the staff for a while before entering the room. He does his best to avoid her gaze, afraid that it might break whatever heart he has left to see her disappointment. His plan to keep his head down is flawed, as she grabs his chin softly in her motherly hands and forces his eyes to look directly into hers.

"It's time to come home now Simon. I won't turn my back on you ever again." It's in that very sentence a tear rolls down her cheek. She blames herself for whatever reason Simon does not know, but he can't help but to start crying too.

"Yeah mam, I want to go home." It's the first time Simon had even considered it, but being in a hospital, watching is mother cry, crying himself for the first time since childhood, he agrees.

She smiles with this answer, but her sobs continue along with his. She cradles his head on her shoulder in a lasting embrace, rocking him gently until they both run out of tears.

**_Sobriety is a jewel_**  
**_That I do much adore;_**

The next day, he joins her on the return flight to Ireland. Despite never wanting to go back, he knows to have any shot of fixing himself he needs to go back to where it started.

**_And therefore keep me dancing_**  
**_Though drunkards lie and snore._**

The staff at the medical center in LA had worked with his mother to find a treatment center close to home before the plane even landed. Once it does land, they take a cab straight to the facility for detox. The only thing to have kept him from withdraw on the plane was the methadone they gave him before he left. Only enough pills to last the ride, with the aches and pains starting as soon as Simon enters the building. Detox is the hardest part physically speaking, without the methadone he feels like he's falling apart at the seams. It seems to last forever, the pain, the fever, the sleeplessness; it's a week before his body starts to feel the least bit better.

Once the physical turmoil subsides, the emotional begins. The program includes therapy session after session, group and individual. They even bring in his mother for a family session, a session that his father does not attend. The sessions help after a while, Simon is finally able to express the darkness that had clouded his days for as long as he could remember. The therapists help him to learn the truth about his mental health-that his clinical depression could be helped, with proper doctor prescribed pharmaceuticals and continued therapy. Years of self-medicating had done him nothing but harm, lessening the natural receptors in his brain even further than the initial depression had. What he had thought would make him better had only made him worse. But with time and adjustments to his prescriptions and dosages, he started to feel better. The cloud begins lifting ever so slightly, as his smiles become genuine rather than snarky. His mother sees lightness in him she hasn't seen in his lifetime.

**_O mind your feet, O mind your feet,  
Keep dancing like a wave,_**

It isn't until he had two years of sobriety under his belt that he is ready to start his life again. Nearly 26, he wasn't sure how to do that without a legal job or skill set by means of support. He had finished secondary school and passed his exams, but by then the drugs and the depression had gotten so bad that he relied on the lifestyle he didn't want to ever return to.

**_And under every dancer_**  
**_A dead man in his grave._**  
**_No ups and downs, my pretty,_**  
**_A mermaid, not a punk;_**

Being in his hometown didn't help. His father had forgiven him enough to let Simon stay in the house, but it was always tense. And when the tension was high, he remembered exactly where he could go and what he could do to get his fix, to get the tension to melt away; the corners, the parks, the clubs where he could score, quick and easy. It took all his might not to go down that road again, just to feel that high one last time. He had resisted thus far, but wasn't sure if he had enough strength to stop himself every minute of every day if he stuck around that place.

**_A drunkard is a dead man,  
And all dead men are drunk._**

He knew he needed to get away, but still wasn't sure until he was attending his regular NA meeting that the idea popped in his head. It had been brought up by another member, Nick, while talking to a younger lad just out of young offenders. Nick was assuring the lad that he was still young enough to go to school and become something. Simon knew it hadn't been directed towards him, but he couldn't help but to listen intently as Nick spoke.

"You still got your youth, and a lot of us here don't got that. You still got your freedom, and I know I don't got that! I'm on parole to this day and I been sober 3 years." A smile broke across his face.

"It's never too late to be who you might have been."

Simon recognized the quote, he always liked it. He left the meeting early that day knowing what he had to do to get his life back on track, to make something of himself. He rang the admissions office as soon as he got home and enrolled in a Liverpool university.


End file.
